


Saudade

by pressedinthepages



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Depression, Gen, sad witcher times, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pressedinthepages/pseuds/pressedinthepages
Summary: Geralt finds warmth in a time of quiet cold.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert & Vesemir, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel & Vesemir (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Saudade

**Author's Note:**

> Reader Request: [ok can i request something super angsty for one of the kaer morhen boys? like i'm talking death, abandonment, P A I N like seriously make me cry? i'm sorry this is a weird request but i am in the mood for some suffering.] i wanted to try something a little different this time, hopefully you enjoy!

_ portuguese. noun. an emotional state of nostalgia and longing for someone or something distant. _

The scent of ash and smoke fills the air, the embers all that’s left to warm Geralt’s front. He is kneeling, has been for hours. He’s been trying to meditate, to step away from this into the sanctuary of his unconscious. Finally, he feels the tendrils pulling behind his eyes, leading him somewhere bright and warm and teeming with joy.

* * *

Laughter. Laughter is the first thing he hears, bouncing around the corridors of Kaer Morhen, long before it was beaten to ruin and rubble. Geralt turns towards the noise, so foreign in its innocence. His eyes widen as they track two young boys, no older than seventeen summers. One of them has dark hair that flops into his bright golden eyes, he’s the one laughing louder with a crooked smile. The other one though barks out a laugh of his own, rough and stiff as if he were relearning the action. The silver of his hair reflects the light of the torches along the walls as he runs, chasing after the dark-haired boy with reckless abandon. 

“C’mon Geralt, you big lug, you’re getting slow!” Geralt watches as the version of himself from long ago grimaces, pushing his head down and lunging forward, tackling the other and hitting the ground in a tangle of limbs with two low grunts.

“You keep this up, Eskel, we’ll see who the little brat ends up wit-” Geralt’s words are cut off when Eskel twists around and wraps his arm around his neck, effectively leaving him breathless. The older Geralt can’t help the smile that creeps up his lips, watching himself try to wriggle out of Eskel’s grasp as his face reddens with the lack of oxygen.  _ Gods, have I always been so stubborn?  _ he thinks to himself.

He watches as the young Geralt slaps Eskel’s thigh twice, the pressure immediately letting up as Eskel moves back. But not quick enough, for Geralt turns at the last second and pulls Eskel by the ankle, wrestling him back to the ground. They tussle for a while, evenly matched as they fight like waves breaking along a shore, pushing and pulling each other towards an impossible end.

Well, not impossible. Geralt hears someone clear their throat pointedly, all three witchers reflexively freezing in their tracks. Vesemir enters the corridor, arms crossed and his mouth set with frustration. 

“Boys,” Vesemir rumbles, his head tilting with impatience, “Mind sharing what this is about?”

Geralt watches as the two young witchers glance at each other, silently agreeing to not say a word. The younger version of himself is leaning over Eskel, his hand wrapped around one of Eskel’s arms where he had been trying to wrench his grasp away from his chest. Eskel is on his back on the floor, his foot digging into Geralt’s chest where he had been trying to shove him away. 

Vesemir sighs, shaking his head at the two boys. In retrospect, Geralt realizes that they must have been a terror for the old man, probably prematurely aging him a good century.

“Is this about the kid?” Vesemir asks, his shoulders falling a bit as he tries to relax the other two into listening properly. “You should know that I already have the situation all figured out.” 

Geralt almost laughs at the confused looks of the two young witchers, eyebrows furrowed until Eskel digs his heel into Geralt’s chest unexpectedly, knocking him onto his ass a few feet away. By the time he’s able to get back up, Eskel has darted away, careening back to the training yard. Vesemir sighs once more as the young Geralt gives chase, cursing colorfully as he runs. 

* * *

“You sure this works for you, kid?” Eskel whispers, the moonlight pouring into the room and over his cheeks, unmarred by cruelty and misfortune. 

Geralt watches as his younger self pads over to the pile of furs on the floor in front of the fire. He kneels down, peeling one of the furs back to peek inside. There, swathed in warmth and comfort, is a terribly young-looking Lambert, his eyes not yet golden, but still burning with wit and an unquenchable temper. 

“It’s fine,” the pile of furs mumbles, yanking the cover to shield the boy once more. Eskel’s and Geralt’s eyes meet as they lay on either side of the lump in the middle, settling in to rest. They can’t help but feel like they lucked out, most older boys not getting their own shadow during training. They both know Lambert’s special, even if he’s a prickly asshole of a kid. 

“Thanks for picking us,” Geralt murmurs, turning onto his side and letting the soft sounds of breathing and slow heartbeats lull his mind. He’s never felt so warm, so comfortable, so  _ safe.  _ These are his brothers, and he’s willing to walk through hell and back for him. And he knows they’d do the same. 

“Whatever, go the fuck to sleep,” which is about as close as Lambert can get to actual affection. Eskel huffs a breath of laughter, a smile on his lips as his eyes fall closed. The older, present Geralt lingers, letting himself find that same warmth in the memory. He wishes he could stay here, soaking up the domestic peace that lives in this part of his mind. But he can’t, he has work to do.

* * *

The pyre only smolders now, a faint pitter-patter of rain dampening the scent of death and sorrow in the air. In one heartbreaking day, the number of Wolf Witchers dropped from four to one, the medallion hanging heavy around his neck. Geralt lets his hair hang around his face, cold and shivering as the skies open above him. He feels a gaping cavern in the space where his heart should be, sucking every bit of energy and motivation from his mind.

_ So,  _ he thinks to himself,  _ I guess this is what it’s like, not being able to feel. _

__ Geralt doesn’t feel grief, or anger, or disgust. He only feels empty, a dark void clawing at his chest as he rises, turning away from the fire where his family lies. 

He walks through the halls, footsteps echoing in the rubble before he crosses the bridge that keeps the castle closed off to the rest of the world. He flips the lever for the final time, watching as the bridge rises before blasting the handle off and sending it careening to where no one will ever find it. 

Geralt clenches his jaw, steels his breath, and puts one foot in front of the other, beginning the long trek down the mountain.  _ This is how it should be _ , he thinks,  _ Witchers aren’t meant for family, for warmth, for those feelings.  _

__ _ We were made to be alone. _

__ And the Path of the White Wolf is one that will always be walked alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, you can find me on tumblr @pressedinthepages


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